


Grudge Match

by ficlicious



Series: Ghost Verse [2]
Category: Doom (2005), Star Trek
Genre: Crossover, Explicit Language, F/M, Genderbending, Reaper!McCoy, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 21:27:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficlicious/pseuds/ficlicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lenore McCoy and Jim Kirk were on the outs, the whole ship felt it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration from Battlestar Galactica's "Unfinished Business" (episode 3x9) for the idea (though I'm sure it's an old military tradition somewhere on Earth too).
> 
> Set vaguely in the near future of my Ghostverse, where Johnna "Reaper" Grimm became Lenore "Bones" McCoy over the course of a couple centuries. (It could be read as a standalone, purely AOS fic though, if you suspend your disbelief long enough.)

It was something of an open secret that the Chief Medical Officer and the Captain were an item. Regulations outright forbade fraternization, but it wasn't quite as black-and-white on the frontiers of space. As long as the chain of command didn't suffer – and it often didn't – the crew turned a blind, indulgent eye to it.

Because when the captain and CMO were happy, the whole ship brimmed with energy. An upbeat, indestructible dynamo on the bridge, and a miracleworking god who actually smiled once in awhile in SickBay made everyone's day that much better. Shifts flew by, morale soared and efficiency went through the roof.

But when McCoy and Kirk were on the outs, the whole ship felt it.

**oOoOoOo**

When it came to fighting, most officers preferred the comfortable distance of a phaser or phase rifle. Gods forbid they should have to get up close and personal with a knife or their fists. Most officers let their hand-to-hand training slide, except for Security where it was a job requirement. Sparring matches sprang up impromptu after shifts were done. They were good-natured, laughing affairs where a couple of friends came together and threw a couple of punches at each other in the name of exercise and good fun. On most ships, this was the accepted practice, if not the standard.

Not so on the  _Enterprise._

A regulation boxing ring appeared in the rec hall every now and then, when tensions were high and nerves were frazzled. The rules were simple: you put your ID in the cannister, you fought. When you wanted out, you pulled your ID out. There was no rank, no protocol, no rules except  _you yield, you lose_ and  _bring it to the ring, work it out in the ring, leave it in the ring._

Ring matches on Grudge Night were serious business.

**oOoOoOo**

The ship was finally repaired from the last encounter with the Klingons, who seemed to have an especial hatred for the _Enterprise_  crew. Tensions had been mounting and tempers seething for weeks. Without warp drive, the  _Enterprise_ had been stranded out on the fringes of space. Thankfully, they'd been close enough to a habitable planet to get in some shore leave, and harvest enough resources for synthesizing repair parts and food, but it had taken a toll on the crew. Morale was down, dissatisfaction was way, way up.

And Kirk and McCoy had been pissed at each other the whole time.

No one knew why. If senior staff did, they weren't telling. All anyone could piece together was that a landing party had gone aboard the Klingon warbird, weapons fire had been exchanged. The five survivors who came back – McCoy, Kirk, Sulu, a redshirt ensign named Bates, and the security officer the Captain habitually called Cupcake – had all kept their mouths shut.

But  _something_  had happened. Kirk had come back brimming with fury, practically screaming at anyone who dared say as much as "good morning". McCoy, well... the crew was used to McCoy's mercurial moods. But there was something _different_ about the CMO. Something darker, and infinitely more dangerous. She terrified anyone and everyone who crossed her path, and all she had to do was look at them.

It exponentially multiplied the strain on the rest of the crew. The injured got barked at more so than usual, McCoy's razor-sharp tongue tore them new orifices while her hands patched up their bones and organs. Kirk became an anal-retentive tyrant, stalking the corridors with raging eyes just looking for violations to pounce on.

Whatever their problems, the rest of the crew felt it. Morale was at an all-time low, and even the closest of friends were snapping at each other like rabid dogs. The situation was unbearable.

And so, one Thursday evening as the  _Enterprise_ limped back to Federation space, the ring went up.

**oOoOoOo**

Uhura didn't like the grudge matches, and she never dropped her ID into the cannister. She preferred using words and reason to settle her differences with others. It was one of the reasons why she was so compatible with Spock, who lived and died by logic.

Which was why she was so surprised to walk into the rec hall at 1800 hours to find Spock directing several of the security staff in placing chairs around the boxing ring. "What are you doing?" she asked. She hoped the appall she felt didn't show through her voice. One did not emotionally begin an argument with a Vulcan and expect to win.

"The situation between Captain Kirk and Doctor McCoy has grown untenable. The rift between them is causing untold harm across the entire ship. I have taken the liberty of scheduling a Grudge Night in order to provide them the opportunity to work out their problems."

Uhura shook her head and even went so far as to lay a single hand on Spock's elbow. "Spock, no. Intervention, counselling, those are better options than... than... beating the snot out of each other."

Spock's eyebrow twitched up. "Physical altercation has proven historically to relieve tension and stress," he said. "Previous Grudge Nights have shown to positively affect crew morale. Also, given the personalities and volatility of the two involved, I highly doubt they would accept any third-party intervention into what is at its core, a personal matter."

Uhura jerked back as if he'd slapped her. "You can't approve of this," she said, scandalized. "It's barbaric!"

Spock turned to her and, though his expression showed the stereotypical Vulcan impassivity, Uhura thought she saw a glint of sympathy in his eyes. "Barbaric or not, Lieutenant Uhura, the results are undeniable. Interpersonal relationships improve, morale increases and a sense of camaraderie is engendered even amongst those who engage only in side-bets. It has proven quite beneficial a tradition on board this ship. I am not always a proponent of the ends justifying the means, but in this case, it is undeniable fact."

She blinked, unsure how to process the idea that a Vulcan, who suppressed violent tendencies as a course of his race's philosophy, might even tacitly approve of fist-fighting for stress-relief. "I... didn't know you felt this way."

Spock's tone was as even as ever, but Uhura heard the gentle admonition in his words. "You never asked, Lieutenant."

**oOoOoOo**

The crowd started gathering as word spread that the ring was up. Grudge Night was officially a go. IDs clattered into the cannister as shipmates eyed each other with all the hostility and irritation they were supposed to suppress on duty. Uniform shirts were not permitted as the rank insignia was inherent in the design, so most people simply wore Starfleet-issue gym clothes.

If anyone was surprised to see Spock sitting at the table with Scott, the usual referee, no one batted an eyelash.

Scott took a swig of his flask, taking advantage of the fact that no rules meant no prohibition on booze. "Ye think they'll throw in, Spock?" he said, offering the Vulcan the flask.

Spock shook his head a fraction, and Scott withdrew his offering. "I do not know, Mr. Scott, but I am hopeful."

Uhura slouched beside them, scowling. "I can't believe you talked me into coming here," she grumbled. Like everyone else, she was wearing exercise clothing. It was only because uniforms were forbidden, though she had debated wearing one anyway. She had no intention of ever participating.

Spock's eyebrow rose. "I merely suggested, lieutenant, that you witness the meritous effects of what initially seems a violent and pointless practice before you decide to approve or disapprove. You made the decision to participate tonight yourself."

She ignored Spock's chiding, mostly because Scott had gotten an interested, speculative look Uhura didn't like. "No," Uhura said firmly, leaning forward to point a finger at Scott. "Get that look off your face. I am  _not_ participating. I'm _observing._ Nothing more."

Scott snapped his mouth shut. "Aye, ma'am. Well, time ta get this show on th' road." He half-stood, banging the cannister on the table. "If I can get yer attention, ladies and gents! This is Grudge Night. Ye know what we do here. Ye know why. Ye know th' rules. If ye don't, ask yer neighbour." Scott dipped his hands into the cannister. "First match!" he called, pulling two IDs out. "Greg Paulson and Chan Li Su."

The two whose names had been called made their way to the ring, pausing at the equipment rack to lace on gloves. Uhura glanced between the participants, but neither seemed to have any sort of animosity towards the other. She heard bets being taken and given, with Chan the favored at two-to-one odds.

"Whenever yer ready," Scott called.

The match was swift. Paulson was twice the size of his Chan and, despite Grudge Night rules stating no-holds-barred, he obviously didn't want to hurt Chan. Chan, on the other hand, had no such compunctions and pressed the advantage, toppling Paulson like a tree with a couple of rabbit punches and a brutal groin shot that left virtually all the men and at least a third of the women wincing in sympathy.

Scott applauded. "Winner! Chan Li Su!"

Uhura wanted to be disgusted. Grudge Night was about using physical violence to solve problems, and that was against her core beliefs. But as she looked around at the rations chits and credits changing hands, the smiles and cheers, even the jeers that held no sting of malice, and at Chan offering Paulson a hand to his seat, slow realization dawned that maybe she'd been wrong.

Maybe if she viewed it as a distasteful but integral part of an alien culture, and covered under Starfleet respect and tolerance rules, she could live with it. She still didn't like it, but no one was forcing her to participate.

The matches went on, some more personal than others. Scott threw his ID into the cannister at one point, and Spock took over referee duties. Scott drew up against O'Malley, one of his engineers, who looked pretty eager to start brawling. Uhura wondered what had gone on down in Engineering during the course of the repairs for the affable, eminently likeable Scott to engender such bloodthirst.

Uhura leaned back to watch the brawl. At first, it seemed like O'Malley, being taller and more muscular, would dominate Scott. But Scott was quick and slippery, bouncing like a jackrabbit from one end of the ring to the other, darting in to jab at O'Malley's ribs before darting back out again. Then O'Malley got in a lucky shot that dropped Scott with a spectacular thud. He didn't get up for a minute, and when he did, he was clearly done.

Spock rose. "Mr. O'Malley," he said, "is the winner."

O'Malley got Scott back on his feet, and the two engineers passed words that ended in broad (if lopsided in Scott's case) smiles and hearty back slaps. When Scott found his way back to the table, e had a towel around his neck, a bottle of water in his hand, and a nose already swollen to nearly twice its size.

"Looks painful," Uhura said.

"Oh aye. It is," Scott said cheerfully, grinning even though it had to be painful. "An' it's gonna hurt like th' dickens until I can get to Sickbay and ask Doctor McCoy to pretty please fix it for me."

Uhura shook her head in disbelief. "What was all that about anyway?"

Scott waved a hand dismissively, gingerly feeling at his nose. "Water under the bridge, now. That's the point, lass. Lance the poison before it kills."

"I'm starting to see that." Uhura looked around as Spock called the last match of the evening, a girl from stellar cartographer with one of the botanists. She was still disturbed at the broken noses, the black eyes, the bloody streaks on faces. But she could no longer pretend to deny that people were looser, freer, more relaxed, with all the aggression spent.

"It seems that you were right," she told Spock, watching the people mingling and socializing. "The mood seems better. Lighter. It's too bad, though, that McCoy and Kirk didn't show up, since you set this whole thing up for them in the first place."

"I would not jump so quickly to that conclusion, lieutenant."

Uhura blinked. Ranks were forbidden on Grudge Night, in order to avoid court martial for striking a superior officer. Spock's tone had been mild enough, but the slip of her rank belied that: something had surprised, possibly even shocked, him.

His eyes were fixed on something behind her and over her right shoulder, so she turned to see what had seized his attention. A dark-haired woman dressed in a black tank-top and dark green pants stood in the doorway, glaring absolute death at something across the room.

She looked so different from the usual rumpled scrubs or rumpled medical blues, it took Uhura a few moments to recognize the Chief Medical Officer. Curiously, she looked back and saw Kirk, dressed in black, meeting McCoy's flinty glare with his own.

Gradually, the mingling crewmembers became aware of their Captain and CMO's presence. Even from halfway across the room from either of them, Uhura felt the rage and fury snapping from their staredown like static along her shoulders. She shivered. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. The tension, so carefully drained and siphoned over the course of the evening, instantly ramped back up to eleven.

Paths cleared as Kirk and McCoy started moving towards the table where Spock patiently sat. Chairs scraped out of the way, and people melted back warily, unwilling to stand in their way. It was clear that, if anyone did, McCoy and Kirk would likely walk right over them.

They reached the table, slapped their IDs into the cannister, and glared at each other. If they were dogs, they'd be circling and snapping, fur bristling and fangs bared. As it was, they came as close enough. Toe-to-toe, eye-to-eye, barely three inches apart. Kirk was taller, but McCoy's aggressive, looming presence added height to her slim form.

The air felt thicker around them, solid and heavy. Uhura hunched her shoulders, praying neither of them turned their attention on her. It went on forever, growing so increasingly uncomfortable Uhura wanted to run away screaming. Neither of them spoke, neither of them budged an inch. Neither of them looked away.  _They look like they don't know whether to fight or fuck._

"The next match," Spock said calmly, not even bothering to reach for the IDs, "will be Lenore McCoy and James Kirk."


	2. Chapter 2

Grudge Match, Part Two

_A few minutes earlier_

McCoy avoided Grudge Night with a vengeance. She protested, long and loud, to anyone who would stand still long enough to even give the impression of listening that it was a “damn fool thing to do” and generally grumbling that she had enough injury to fix, between the Klingons and the various scrapes half the crew (but mostly Kirk) got themselves into on an all-too-regular basis to go looking to add to her workload. But she only did this because she had to maintain her reputation as a crotchety joykill.

No one needed to know Grudge Night had been her idea in the first place.

Normally, she stayed in her quarters, or retreated to SickBay. There was always paperwork to do, forms to fill out in triplicate and notations to append to personnel records. Normally, she went to the other side of the ship, and stayed there, far away from violence and blood. Far away from any temptation to unleash the animal inside, let the violence out of the shackles.

Tonight was not a normal night.

And it was all the fault of that unimaginable _bastard_.

McCoy snarled as she paced in the confines of her quarters. Who the _hell_ did he think he was? She’d only done it to save his life, but bloody James goddamn Tiberius _fucking_ Kirk couldn’t be grateful for that. _Noooo._ He had to be in control of every little detail. He had to approve or deny every little thing. He was such a goddamned pain in the ass, McCoy wondered why she even put up with him.

And now he had her hiding, -- _hiding_ , _her_! – like a mouse in a hole, avoiding the Great Walking Disaster that was her captain. Lenore McCoy didn’t _hide_. Johnna fucking Grimm didn’t hide either. Yet here she was, cowering in her quarters to avoid having to deal with Kirk on anything than an emergency, world-is-ending basis.

She whirled and punched the wall, her fist sinking into the bulkhead as if the metal were made of butter. It hurt, blissful pain, for all of three seconds before her supercharged healing soothed the ache and knitted the bones back again.

She should have let him die. If nothing else, she’d have some goddamned peace of mind.

Intellectually, she knew that wasn’t true. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she let Jim go without a fight. It wasn’t in her nature. It wasn’t even in his. She knew, logically, he’d come around sooner or later. The voice in the back of her head, the one that sounded aggravatingly like Spock, was cool and rational, telling her to just ride it out. But in any of her myriad lives, she had never listened to cool rationalism. She was a creature of instinct, a predator, a hunter and a killer. Her instincts had told her to save Kirk, and she had.

And he seemed intent to make her pay for her mistake.

Suddenly, her quarters were too confining, too close, too tight. She knew it was irrational, but it felt like she couldn’t breathe in them, like they weren’t stretching far enough to contain her safely. And maybe they weren’t; it had been a long time since she’d felt quite this angry, this hurt, this outraged.

Well, fuck it then. The only one keeping her in her quarters was _her_.

She knew it was a bad idea. She knew her feet would find their way to Grudge Night. She knew that someone would end up taking the brunt of her rage. Knew she’d be very remorseful and self-castigating tomorrow. Knew that, right then, _she didn’t care_.

The door hissed open, and McCoy stalked out into the ship, almost spoiling for a fight. God help anyone who got in her way.

**oOoOoOo**

**_Also a few minutes ago_ **

Kirk typically avoided Grudge Night, though not because he didn’t want to participate. Bones had had to talk him into the whole thing to begin with, resulting in an hours-long conversation about crew morale and stress relief and charts of biochemical responses and psychological studies that made his eyes glaze over simply thinking about them. The crew had enough to deal with, without adding beating the crap out of each other. But McCoy had protested, loud and long, and made him sit until he agreed to it. The speed at which she’d assumed responsibility for extra broken bones, bloody noses and bruised egos had been dizzying and, almost before he knew it, he was agreeing to the whole thing.

He had a reputation to maintain, after all, as a seat-of-the-pants wild card. No one needed to know Grudge Night hadn’t been his idea.

Normally, he stayed in his quarters or in his ready room, pushing through the paperwork that being the Captain engendered. The forms and personnel records seemed to procreate as they sat in their pile on his desk, padd after padd stacking until the workload seemed impossible for one man to wade through. He signed off on more disciplinary recommendations and promotions on Grudge Night than any other night.

Tonight was not a normal night.

And it was all the fault of that unimaginable _bitch_.

Kirk snarled as he paced in the confines of his ready room. Who the _hell_ did she think she was? He’d known the risks, going onto a hostile ship, had been prepared for whatever the consequences had been. But bloody Lenore goddamn Honoria _fucking_ McCoy couldn’t let things happen as they would. She couldn’t let her iron control slip. _Nooooo._ She had to impose her will on every little detail. She had to play God with every little _fucking_ thing. She was such a goddamned pain in the ass, Kirk wondered why he even put up with her.

And now she had him hiding, -- _hiding_ , _him_! – like a mouse in a hole, avoiding the Great Walking Disaster that was his CMO. James T. Kirk didn’t _hide_. Yet here he was, cowering in his ready room to avoid having to deal with McCoy on anything than an emergency, world-is-ending basis.

He slammed his hands into the bulkhead, feeling it give under the force of the blow. It hurt, blissful pain, for all of three seconds before his system flagged it as an annoyance and promptly ignored it. His skin was crawling, like thousands of insects swarming over his arms and legs, infesting his back and chest, until he felt like he could gouge down to bone and muscle to tear it all off.

She should have let him die. If nothing else, he’d have some goddamned peace of mind.

Intellectually, he knew that wasn’t true. He knew he should be grateful for the continuance of his life. It wasn’t in his nature to do anything but fight against the inevitable. He knew, logically, he should forgive Bones, that she’d been unable to think about living without him. She’d done what she thought was best, even though she had to have known he’d be pissed. The voice in the back of his head, the one that sounded aggravatingly like Spock, was cool and rational, was telling him to just get over it. But he had never listened to cool rationalism. He was a captain who flew by instinct, shot from the hip and reacted on a hair-trigger instinctual grasp of facts that bordered on supernatural skill.

All of those were screaming with betrayal and fear and frustration and the unholy clamour in his head translated into one thing: deep, endless rage.

Suddenly, his quarters were too confining, too close, too tight. He knew it was irrational, but it felt like he couldn’t breathe in them, like they weren’t stretching far enough to contain him safely. And maybe they weren’t; it had been a long time since he’d felt quite this angry, this betrayed, this outraged.

Well, fuck it then. The only one keeping him in his ready room was _him_.

He knew it was a bad idea. He knew his feet would find their way to Grudge Night. He knew that someone would end up taking the brunt of his rage. Knew he’d be very remorseful and self-castigating tomorrow. Knew that, right then, _he didn’t care_.

The door hissed open, and Kirk stalked out into the ship, spoiling for a fight. God help anyone who got in his way.

**oOoOoOo**

_Now_

The silence was unnerving, the absolute unnatural quiet of a large crowd deathly afraid of making any sound to draw the attention of either of the two. Uhura choked on the scream trapped in her throat, fought to keep from curling up into a little, unthreatening ball so neither of them thought she was of any interest at all.

Spock’s voice, calmly announcing the final match of the evening, dropped in the utterly still room like a shattering mirror. McCoy and Kirk moved towards the ring, eerily mirroring the other’s pace. Slow. Measured. Coiled tight as a spring.

Apex predators stalking each other. Waiting to see who would break first.

Grudge Night was supposed to be about release of tension, working out problems in a safe, if somewhat violent, manner. It was supposed to be about restoring morale, fixing camaraderie. God help her, Uhura could even see the benefit in that now.

But watching Kirk and McCoy, Uhura knew deep in her gut that this particular grudge match was going to end up with someone dead.

Kirk flexed his hands, staring at McCoy. McCoy reached into a pocket of her pants, pulling out a roll of some thin material which she began to wind around her hands. Uhura was at the wrong angle to see more than a third of McCoy’s face, just enough to know she was talking. Whatever the Chief Medical Officer was saying, she spoke too softly for it to carry. But the effect her words had on the Captain were obvious. The more McCoy spoke, the tighter Kirk’s shoulders tensed. The longer McCoy taunted him, the whiter his knuckles fisted at his sides. His jaw jumped, and if it was in time with his heartbeat, Uhura hoped that Christine Chapel was in the crowd, because McCoy didn’t look like she was in the mood for emergency cardiac resuscitation.

_BANG_

Kirk slammed his hand into the table, and Uhura jumped, panic surging into her veins. Under the force of the blow, the canister containing the tags fell onto its side, clanging softly as it rolled to the edge and thumped onto the floor. The crowd shifted uneasily. Only Spock was calm, immovable, impassive. He merely raised an eyebrow at Kirk’s hand, slammed onto the table in front of him.

“The rules of Grudge Night are clear,” Spock said, in his normal officious tone of voice that now seemed wildly out of place amid the tension and hostility. Kirk and McCoy’s heads turned towards him. “Bring it to the ring. Work it out in the ring. Leave it in the ring.” His eyebrow went up another notch. After a significant pause, he added, “Neither of you are in the ring.”

“Then we’ll get in the ring.” The captain’s eyes still promised violence, but his voice was eerily calm.

“After you.” The doctor’s voice was also calm, but the slight bow and gesture towards the ring were nothing less than mockery.

Uhura watched her two superior officers climb into the ring, and the bottom finally dropped out of her stomach. She didn’t believe in silly superstitions, but her Nona had been convinced psychic abilities flowed in her matrilineal blood. The old woman had been more than a little dotty, but as the certainty that there would be death here before the night was out was so strong in her chest, tightening her lungs and halting her breath, that she couldn’t help but wonder if there was something to her grandmother’s bedtime stories after all.

**oOoOoOo**

The chromosome was nigh-instantaneous, but there was a learning curve to knowing what the body was now capable of. McCoy had had to learn fast, back on Mars, back in the old days, facing down Sarge as he mutated into savagery and rage. Fighting for her own life, for Sam, for the whole damn planet. Kirk hadn’t had to fight for his life yet; the dawning realization came slower for him.

Well, time for her to ring the school bell, then.

Even as pissed off as he was, Kirk couldn’t hit her. McCoy knew he wouldn’t. No matter how enraged he was, no matter how out-of-control, Jim Kirk had his code of ethics, and beating on women simply wasn’t on it. It didn’t matter that he knew she could smack a Gorn into unconsciousness, take anything short of a nuke and live to tell the tale. She had breasts and cleaned up pretty, so she was shunted into the special category that demanded chivalry. He wasn’t going to hit her first, no matter how badly he wanted to.

As Kirk stood there, hands trembling with iron-clad self-control, McCoy reached out and socked him across the jaw.

His head snapped back, comical disbelief flashing across his face, and he staggered back a couple of paces. McCoy hadn’t even bothered pulling the punch by much. Anyone else, and he’d require neurosurgery to repair the massive brain trauma she’d just dealt him. But Kirk wasn’t anyone else, not anymore. The most that blow would do was scramble him for a few seconds, while his increased healing got busy and repaired the damage.

The clinical part of McCoy’s brain reeled off the process. The lizard brain thought hitting him felt fantastic. It wanted to do it again.

McCoy listened to the lizard, and followed with a fist to Kirk’s nose. Cartilage crumpled under her knuckles with a satisfying crunch, and Kirk slammed into the ropes. He hung off them for a second, dazed and unfocused. Beyond him, in the blur of hyperfocus, she could see a sea of astonished faces.

_Surprise, folks. Your surgeon is a badass._

“C’mon, kid,” she said, knowing she was reckless, but simply not caring. “Gonna let your ass get beat by a girl?”

Her words hit their mark with pinpoint accuracy. Time slowed, just for a second, and she had all the time in the world to watch the fog clear, the words register, the exact moment when Kirk lost his shit, pulled himself off the ropes with blood on his face, and came at her.

It broke the tension in the crowd, and the silence snapped under the weight of the noise.

He was sloppy, telegraphing every punch before he threw it. McCoy didn’t let that lull her into complacency. Eventually, the kid would realize what he could do, and his brain would spin into overdrive to catch up with his body. And that’s when things would get _interesting_.

He telegraphed another slug, this one a vicious haymaker at a strength he hadn’t yet processed. If it connected, it would have taken her head off. Instead, she sidestepped and dropped under his arm, so close it was barely a hair from her chin, and jabbed her elbow into Kirk’s gut.

The air whuffed out of him. He bent double with a hilarious expression that on another day would have sent her into fits of laughter. Today, it only fanned the savage, burning glee. She followed the gut-shot with a knee to his face, a fatal blow. But Kirk just reeled back, streaming blood and snot anew from his nose. He dropped to a knee with one hand cradling his stomach, the other wiping his nose and chin.

Any second now…

McCoy bounced backwards, on the balls of her feet, hands loosely in front of her. “You’re sloppy, Jim,” she sneered. She knew where every single one of his buttons were, and she ruthlessly jabbed at them all. “Sloppy and reckless. I don’t know what Starfleet was doing when they gave you the damn ship. Anyone with so breathtaking a death wish needs to be under psychiatric observation, not on the bridge of a starship.”

_Any second…_

Kirk picked himself off the ground, moving like molasses. His head came up like a glacier, slow and inexorable. His eyes focused on McCoy, and she felt a frisson of fear shiver down her spine. The rage in his eyes was near mindless, endless fathoms that drew on wells as deep as childhood.

Time slowed to a crawl around her. The catcalls of the crew blurred into a long, continuous low buzz. She knew the biochemical process, had studied her own scans and bloodwork under the most microscopic of scrutinies available. Knew the speed at which her hypothalamus and adrenal glands communicated, knew how much cortisol was kicking fatty acids into her bloodstream, could almost _feel_ the adrenaline rush as it happened, every moment stretched out to exquisite eternity.

Knew it the exact microsecond Kirk’s body woke up from its sluggish dormancy, could almost see through blood and bone and into veins and organs. Knew when his hypothalamus and adrenal glands broke the warp barrier, when his adrenaline went lightspeed.

Felt the vicious grin of elation stretch across her face. Time’s up.

_Here we go._

**oOoOoOo**

“You have to stop this!”

Uhura’s fingers death-gripped on Spock’s arm which, since he abhorred most forms of public physical contact, was a big no-no, but she couldn’t care about that. Not when two of the most senior officers aboard the ship, the two most _important_ officers on the ship, seemed hellbent on murdering each other in front of their bloodthirsty, screaming crew.

Spock’s glance was surreally calm. “It would be illogical to put an end to a fight that was the entire purpose of this evening’s Grudge Night,” he said, and went back to watching the fight.

Uhura shot a wide-eyed look at the ring, where the Captain and the doctor were slugging it out so fast her eyes refused to even register all their motions. “They’re going to kill each other!”

“On the contrary. I have already identified four crippling strikes, thirteen serious injuries and two killing blows. If they were going to kill each other, they would already be dead.”

Uhura’s mouth flapped open and shut for a few minutes, and her eyes blinked rapidly. “What?” she said faintly. “How is that even possible?”

This time, Spock gave her a full look, full of secrets and sympathy. “That,” he said, “is a question for Doctor McCoy and Captain Kirk.”

Uhura couldn’t find the wherewithal to protest when he turned his full attention back to the fight.

**oOoOoOo**

Somewhere in the flurry of blows, McCoy realized she was laughing. The rage was gone, burned away in like mist under sun, transmuted by alchemical blood and pain.

She was a mess of bruises and broken bones, her system stretched to its limit by the injuries she’d sustained so far. Her ankle was swollen in her boot, a few teeth loose in her mouth, the taste of copper a constant companion in the back of her throat. She should have died a dozen times, would die if she weren’t who she was, didn’t know if she could die when faced with this kind of abuse.

But she was free.

For the first time since that horrible night in Olduvai, facing down Sarge with the fate of the world crushing down on her, she was free. In her long years and multiple lifetimes, she had never been able to let go. Not with the Xindi, not with the Romulans. Always alert, always observant. Always careful. Always leashed. No one could take the punishment she could deal. The world was tissue paper, fragile stuff that would rip unless she kept vigilant.

But none of that mattered anymore. Because now Kirk was like her, and he could take it. He _would_ take it all and come back for more. She was free. She wasn’t alone.

And that weight lifted off her shoulders, and she laughed with delight as it fell away.

Abruptly, the fight changed. Kirk’s movements shifted, incoming attacks becoming lazier, almost playful. With a start, she glanced up at his face – she’d been paying more attention to his torso, where she could best predict his movements – and realized the rage was gone from him too. He was grinning, laughing. Eyes warm and bright instead of hot and dark.

Another weight of burden fell away. All was forgiven.

She swung at him again in no particular style, feeling the aches and agonies now. They’d be gone in a minute, but it was enough to slow her just a hair. Kirk caught her arm in a fist, wrapped his other arm around hers, and yanked her into him.

She hit his chest and his free arm snaked under hers, trapping her arms under his. His eyes glittered as he stared down at her, and her breath caught in her throat. The rest of the room faded into background noise. Oh, she had _missed_ that look. “You’re a pain in the ass,” he murmured.

She blew a breath upward, tossing her bangs out of her eyes. “Looked in a mirror lately?”

“The hell am I supposed to do with you, Bones?”

She shrugged, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Either kiss me or kill me. Either way, we’re being stared at.”

Kirk jerked his head up, seeming to realize for the first time where they were and how many people were present. He glanced back down at her, shrugged and said, “Fuck ‘em.”

The smile was definitely there now. She could feel it. “Really? The whole ship? I know you have a reputation for being a man-whore, Jim, but that might be taking your interest in crew morale a little too far.”

“Smartass,” he replied. The move was sudden and unexpected. McCoy shrieked in a decidedly undignified manner as Kirk ducked under his left arm, set his shoulder against her chest and swung her ass-up over his shoulder. She flailed briefly, but had no leverage to free herself.

“The hell are you doing?” she demanded.

“Setting up for round two,” he replied. “My quarters or yours?”

Her breath caught again, and a completely different sort of heat flared along her synapses. “Bed’s bigger in mine,” she said, a trifle breathlessly, “but yours has more stuff to break.”

“Mine it is then,” he said.

The last thing she heard as the door closed behind them was a plaintive voice calling, “But who _won_?”

 


End file.
